


do not go gentle

by epoenine, LaByzance



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dealing With Loss, Depression, Hallucinations, I feel so bad for Benvolio, Inspired by Ryssa's Situational Irony, M/M, Medication, a whole lot of trigger warnings, it's r&j what did you guys expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaByzance/pseuds/LaByzance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(“You might not be hungry, but living, breathing humans need food to live,” Mercutio would say, and Benvolio might have smiled, under different circumstances.)</p><p>“Maybe I don’t want to live,” Benvolio retorts into the air (into Mercutio’s shoulder).</p><p>(“Benvolio,” Mercutio would say, softly, and roll him so that Benvolio can look into his eyes. “It's no use in having the two of us dead. I mean, they can't just kill off all the attractive people in the world, that would just be unfair.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	do not go gentle

**Author's Note:**

> Reason behind the title
>
>>   
> I also like Do Not Go Gentle because the third verse has 'Grave men, near death, who see with blinding light,' because it uses 'grave men' similarly to how Shakespeare uses it when when Mercutio says 'Tomorrow you will find me a grave man' or w/e as in sickly but also as in PHYSICALLY IN A GRAVE B/C HE'S D E A D  
> 
> 
> from Joyce, the other author of this fanfic  
> Title taken from 'Do not go gentle into that good night' by Dylan Thomas  
> We're not Shakespeare and we don't own these characters or Romeo and Juliet 

Mercutio dies from a knife wound.

It’s not just any knife wound, though: it’s Tybalt’s knife stuck between his left ribs hitting the heart that had beat so erratically moments before. Mercutio has faced knife wounds, he’s no stranger to a fight, but this one takes him by surprise: this one ruins him.

Benvolio knows that Tybalt is dead too, Romeo took care of him--for once; Romeo never fought his own battles, Mercutio was his sword and shield--but Romeo is gone too. Benvolio feels so bloody alone, so fucking defenseless. Mercutio may have been Romeo’s weapons, but he was Benvolio’s armour.

Even sweet-faced, gentle Juliet is dead. Gone. Everyone’s leaving him, and he can’t go with them.

Benvolio can still feel the fingers in his hair, can still feel Mercutio's lips on his as though they were there yesterday. And it feels like all of this happened yesterday, when in reality it's been a week, wasted by Benvolio who stayed in bed, staring at the wall.

("Cheer up, Benny. I'm coming right back," Mercutio would say, brushing his lips over Benvolio's head, wrapping his arms tight around him. And Benvolio would still be able to feel Mercutio's warmth.)

If anything, that comment only makes Benvolio sob harder.

"You're lying," Benvolio spit between sobs, cradling his head in his hands (resting his head on Mercutio's shoulder).

("I'm not," Mercutio would say. "Have I ever lied to you?" he would asked with that crooked grin.)

Benvolio curls in on himself (draws away from Mercutio), tucking his knees under his chin as he lays on the bed.

(Mercutio would let him, let him curl his body inward, protecting his vital organs. He'd just sprawl out in the room given to him, stretching his arms over his head.)

Benvolio draws the blanket up, covering his shoulders as they shiver. Why pay the heating bill when the one you love is dead?

(As Benvolio starts to cry, Mercutio would wrap an arm around him, thankful for the extra warmth. "Hey," he would whisper softly. "It'll be okay.")

"It's not going to be okay, it's not," Benvolio chokes out, frustratedly wiping the tears away.

("We'll be okay," Mercutio would insist, kissing Benvolio's damp cheeks.)

“Promise?” Benvolio whispers, closing his eyes.

(“I promise,” Mercutio would reply.)

* * *

He’d only just now thought of the idea, and he scrambles for his phone, searching for the rectangular black device, lost from when he threw it. Having taken one look at the photo of himself and Mercutio set as his background--it was such a stupid photo, but he loved it, god he loved it, because Mercutio took it and the asshole was barely in the shot,  just the back of his head and a slight smile pressed against Benvolio’s neck and--he knew he’d be sick staring at it.

(Mercutio would smile fondly and say, “I can’t believe you threw your phone and lost it. You were never one to act out on things.”)

Benvolio ignores him, digging around under his bed until he closed his hands on a familiar shape. He breathes deeply and makes it past the screensaver.

(“You know this isn’t a good idea, Benny,” Mercutio would tell him softly, and that might be enough to get him to drop the phone.)

His fingers shake as he scrolls through his contacts, ignoring the texts from his friends that read:

[ **Gregory:** I’m so sorry for your loss.]

[ **Rosaline:** If you need anything, I’m here]

And then his thumb lands on Mercutio’s number.

(“Don’t,” the voice would say. Except that voice isn’t real, and this one is, and--)

He presses call.

The tears come instantly, but Benvolio doesn’t make an effort to stop them.

" _You've reached Mercutio almost-but-not-quite Montague; fuck you, Escalus, I said it. If it's Romeo: I don't care about your girl problems, if it's Valentine: tell mom and dad to stop calling me; I won't answer them, and if it's one Benvolio Montague: Hi. I love you. You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Yes, I'll be right back. Stop worrying, love._ Finally _, if you bear none of those monikers, leave your message after the beep. BEEP! Hah, got you, suckers_ ,” the familiar voice says, happy and so unaware that it makes Benvolio’s heart lurch.

He calls again, his throat raw from sobbing.

" _You've reached Mercutio almost-but-not-quite Montague; fuck you, Escalus, I said it. If it's Romeo: I don't care about your girl problems, if it's Valentine: tell mom and dad to stop calling me; I won't answer them, and if it's one Benvolio Montague: Hi. I love you. You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Yes, I'll be right back--_ ”

Benvolio hangs up, his heart hurting to the point of excruciating pain while he cries. Crying is an understatement, though, because what rips from his chest are animal noises. He screams and thrashes out, unable to find solace while sitting on his empty bed.

(“Shh, I’m right here,” Mercutio would say, rubbing his hands soothingly on Benvolio’s back.)

“You’re not _real_ ,” he heaves out, eyes watering and voice strained.

(“Of course I am,” Mercutio would say, sounding slightly offended, his voice wavering.)

“Stop lying,” Benvolio whispers, weakly, collapsing to the floor.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he hits the call button again.

" _You've reached Mercutio--_ ” His hand slumps to the floor, and then he brings it back up, not wanting to miss Mercutio’s voice. “ _\--and if it's one Benvolio Montague: Hi. I love you. You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Yes, I'll be right back. Stop worrying, love._ ”

(Mercutio would press a kiss to his hair. “Stop worrying, love.”)

Benvolio throws his phone again.

* * *

(“You need to eat,” Mercutio would say, nudging Benvolio’s shoulder.)

“I’m not hungry,” Benvolio responds, rolling so he’s facing the wall (Mercutio).

(“You might not be hungry, but living, breathing humans need food to live,” Mercutio would say, and Benvolio might have smiled, under different circumstances.)

“Maybe I don’t want to live,” Benvolio retorts into the air (into Mercutio’s shoulder).

(“Benvolio,” Mercutio would say, softly, and roll him so that Benvolio can look into his eyes. “It's no use in having the two of us dead. I mean, they can't just kill off all the attractive people in the world, that would just be unfair.”)

Benvolio smiles, a light laugh echoing in the room.

(“Come on.” Mercutio would hold out his hand, getting to his feet.)

“What?”

(“We’ll make lunch,” he would say and then laugh as if he didn’t really mean ‘ _I’ll make lunch_.’)

The idea he’ll never see Mercutio in the kitchen again, whistling out a song he doesn’t know the name of, will never know the name of, makes his stomach drop. He doesn’t ever want to eat again.

(“Benny...” Mercutio would trail off, reaching out and pushing the hair from Benvolio’s eyes.)

Finally, Benvolio sighs. “Fine, we’ll order take-out.” And if Benvolio orders for two instead of one, well, the delivery man makes no comment.

The food tastes bland. Or, maybe that’s just life without Mercutio.

(“I’m right here,” he would say, repeated from earlier, rubbing Benvolio’s shoulder.)

“You’re not,” Benvolio says, and he hasn’t even eaten much of his food, but now he’s just pushing it away (and letting Mercutio’s hand go) as he stand up from the couch, shuffling his feet towards the bedroom.

Once he’s curled in on himself again, the numbness hits, and he doesn’t want to exist. Even if it’s just for a few hours.

He wants to escape the world that doesn’t have Mercutio, because how come everyone else gets to be happy, how come everyone else’s loved ones are alive?

It’s not fair.

So he cries.

(“I’m here, I’m here,” Mercutio would whisper into his skin. “I’m here, I promise.”)

“Don’t leave,” Benvolio pleads, turning so he can look at the wall (so he can press his face against Mercutio’s shoulder.)

(“I won’t, I promise,” Mercutio would reply, rubbing his hand soothingly on Benvolio’s back.)

He believes it.

* * *

Benvolio can never wear the shirt from that day again. It's stuffed in his closet in a shoebox that isn't his and it's still awful and bloodied. Thinking about it makes Benvolio want to set the whole place on fire just for keeping it, but he doesn't because he remembers how Mercutio used to love that shirt. He thinks about the first time he kissed him, how his fingers curled into the fabric and the last time he kissed him and how they did the same.

He remembers how Mercutio doubled over at the waist, his fingers grasped at his stomach as if he were holding his entire soul in. At the time, Benvolio barely registered what might have been regret in Tybalt’s eyes. Romeo was screaming, one might have thought he had been stabbed himself. Mercutio, however, was eerily silent. He stumbled over to Romeo.

“You shouldn’t...haven’t gotten between us, Romeo,” he said slowly. Romeo choked on his reply, rubbing his eyes and looking very much like a child. “You should have let...the big boys...sort it out.” A final joke. It’s too forced to be humourous.

There’s a seething look set in Mercutio’s brow. “I hope...you all remember that it was you...all of you...that killed me.” Mercutio turned to Benvolio then and gave him a smile all too personal for their setting. Benvolio knew it from lazy mornings in bed and dancing around each other in the kitchen: a look of gratitude. “Benvolio, get me out of here, will you…love?”

He still doesn’t know how he willed himself forward to grab Mercutio around the waist or where he got the strength to carry him away from the crowd.

“I can’t carry you to a hospital, Mercutio, I need to call you an ambulance,” Benvolio started, but Mercutio shushed him.

“No, love, that won’t do,” he buried his face into Benvolio’s neck and laughed, “I’m sorry, I’m making a mess of your shirt.” Benvolio cried then, pressing a kiss to Mercutio’s head. “It suits you so well, too…” And then Mercutio was reaching up and kissing him, his bloody fingers curled up into Benvolio’s shirt. It felt like he was reaching for his heart. Pulling away from him, Mercutio pressed his forehead to Benvolio’s. “It’s been a wild ride, Benvolio, a wild and beautiful ride…” He’s looking right in his eyes when the shine fades.

Mercutio died smiling.

Benvolio likes to remember that smile, but elects to forget about his death a lot of the time. It hurts less, and more, that way.

* * *

(“There’s mail,” Mercutio would start, arms crossed over his chest. “For us.”)

Benvolio looks up, looking at the wall (at _Mercutio_ , he swears he’s there, he does) from where he sits on the couch. “That means leaving the house.”

(“Juliet’s mom was nice enough to get our mail, since they were going to throw it in the trash,” Mercutio would explain, his tone slightly exasperated.)

“I suppose she pities me,” Benvolio murmurs. “Thinks she knows how I feel,” he says, getting up to put on clean clothes.

(“She sort of _does_ , Benvolio,” Mercutio would try to stress. “Juliet, well, she and I are in the same boat here. It’s a very big boat. And with Tybalt, it’s feeling a little like ‘Life of Pi’.”)

Benvolio doesn’t want to think about any of that. Thinking of Juliet, of Tybalt, and especially of what Mrs. Capulet must be feeling makes the man in front of him (he’s standing right there, honest) less real.

(“We’re also out of milk,” Mercutio would comment, leaning against the doorframe of their room.)

“You don’t drink milk,” Benvolio says, pulling on some jeans and thankful that Mercutio is dropping the subject.

(“No, but you like it,” Mercutio would say.)

“I don’t drink it anymore.”

(“You don’t eat, either, and that’s a problem,” Mercutio would say, softly.)

He tugs off the gray shirt he’s wearing and tosses it in the corner, (Mercutio would brush his lips across Benvolio’s bare shoulder) and then pulls a dark blue one on.

“You’re not coming with me?” he asks at the door, a grim look on his face.

(Mercutio would grin and reply, “Someone has to guard the castle.”)

Benvolio doesn’t laugh, only steps quietly out the door.

It’s the first time he’s gone outside (been away from Mercutio) in a week.

He goes to the Capulet’s house, his face blank and his voice expressionless.

“How are you?” Capulet’s wife asks, a worried look that suits her red rimmed eyes. “I know it must be...tough, on your...on your own.”

“I’m fine,” Benvolio replies (Mercutio would grab his hand). “Someone said you had mail for us--” he catches himself, but she’s already heard, her eyebrows furrowing, and he immediately regrets it. “For me. Mail for me.”

“Yes, the post office was going to throw it out, so I collected it,” she says, turning and motioning for Benvolio to come inside. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, I should be getting back to...” (Getting back to Mercutio.) “I have to pick some things up from the store.”

“Oh,” Juliet’s mom says, absently. “Boxes, I suppose?”

“What?”

“Well, with packing away his--the things.” (Mercutio would grasp his hand tighter.)

“No, no,” Benvolio says, hastily, because he hasn’t thought of packing away Mercutio’s stuff. “Milk, I need milk.”

“Well, when you do, move the stuff out,” she calls from the kitchen, “I’m always able to help, you know that.”

“Thank you,” Benvolio answers, only because he has to.

Juliet’s mom hands him the stack of mail, mostly fancy envelopes that will contain _I’m sorry for your loss_ cards.

“Thank you,” Benvolio repeats, and then he’s back by the front door, and Juliet’s mom is whisking him into a hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Capulet.”

“Oh, please, honey, call me Marie,” she says, pressing her hands against Benvolio’s back.

“I’m sorry. For what happened to Juliet,” he whispers, and then he’s pulling away, walking down the steps to his car.

(Mercutio would have said he probably shouldn’t be driving.)

At the store, he runs into Montague, and they have to stop and talk, and he can’t cry, no, not in the middle of the grocery store.

“How are you holding up, kid?” he asks, and great. This is great.

“Fine. I’m fine,” Benvolio responds, not quite meeting his eyes because he could never lie to Romeo’s dad.

“You don’t look fine,” he says, and Benvolio should be able to wrap him in his arms because he needs it, but he can’t, he can’t because Montague has lost his son and his wife and that would be wrong. And unfair.

“I’m...It’s hard. I’m struggling. That’s all,” Benvolio replies, shifting the weight on his feet.

“I’m here, if you need someone,” he says, and Benvolio wishes everyone would stop showing him pity.

“Thank you,” Benvolio just says instead, “it means a lot.”

* * *

Instead of packing things away, he uses Mercutio’s stuff more than anything else. He wears his sweatpants and wraps himself in his sweatshirts and sleeps on Mercutio’s side of the bed.

(“Why?” Mercutio would ask one day, when Benvolio’s in bed and staring at the wall.)

“They smell like you,” Benvolio says, hoarsely, wiping at the wetness by his eyes.

(“Benny,” Mercutio would breathe out, his voice no more than a quiet whisper. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”)

“I’m fine,” Benvolio answers, turning away.

(“You kind of look like you’re dying,” Mercutio would say, “I would know.”)

Benvolio doesn’t laugh. “I want to.”

(“See,” he’d continue, “Doctors can help with that. Make you feel better and all.”)

“How can they possibly make me feel better when you’re gone?” Benvolio asks, the tears coming faster now.

(“No, shh, I’m here,” Mercutio would assure him, brushing the brown hair out of his eyes.)

“You’re gone, you’re fucking _gone_ and you’re never coming back and I don’t want to be in a world without Mercutio,” Benvolio sobs, (and Mercutio would be taken aback, because Benvolio doesn’t curse) “the world is shitty and you’re the only thing that made it better and I’m _dying_ inside, it’s eating at me.”

(“See,” Mercutio would start, “they can help you. There’s medication for things like this. Call a doctor, please, I don’t want you to feel this way anymore.”)

After hesitating, Benvolio sighs, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Okay.”

* * *

Benvolio doesn’t want to leave the house again, so when the doctor comes, Benvolio sits uncomfortably on his couch (and Mercutio hides away in the bedroom).

“I’m aware you’re dealing with loss,” the doctor--his name's Laurence--starts, “Of a loved one. That can induce depression.” Benvolio only nods. “I’d recommend taking medication.” Names are listed that Benvolio can’t recognize: Prozac, Effexor, Ritalin, Adderall. “Options,” Dr. Laurence tells him, “Options.”

So Benvolio takes what he’s been given regularly--a small white pill that sticks to his throat on the way down.

* * *

Things are okay, for a while.

The pills help; they make things like they were before.

(Mercutio would come around, but not that often.)

Everything’s almost normal again, and days are mostly good. Benvolio progressively moves from the bed to the couch, dragging their blankets with him. He starts to eat more (with Mercutio’s persuasion), but he can’t set foot in the kitchen.

“What movie do you want to watch?” Benvolio asks, sifting through their collection of movies.

(“You pick,” Mercutio would say, smiling fondly, and then, like always, “Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix, again, really? We’ve watched it only a million times.”)

“Don’t lie, you like it,” Benvolio responds, grinning as he starts the movie.

(“No,” Mercutio would deny, “I hate it, I just happen to like you, so I suffer in silence.”)

Benvolio laughs, shivering (since Mercutio would have brushed his lips across the tendons in Benvolio’s neck) before drawing the comforter up to his chin.

“I don’t know how I fell in love with someone who hates Harry Potter,” Benvolio says, leaning his head back (leaning his head onto Mercutio’s shoulder).

(“It’s because of my natural charm and strikingly good looks,” Mercutio would tell him.)

“Oh, yes. I forgot about those,” Benvolio says, grinning.

Yeah, things are more than okay for a while.

* * *

When Mercutio’s last shirt stops smelling like him, the voice is gone. His voice is gone. Mercutio’s gone.

“Merc?” Benvolio asks, tiredly, his voice tinged with panic because the _Good morning, sleeping beauty_ didn’t greet him.

The house is quiet. It’s deadly silent and Benvolio is the only one in it.

_Oh my God, Mercutio’s gone, he’s gone for real this time, he left me, oh, God--_

Benvolio is hit with a wave of nausea, and he sits up, choking on air. He then stumbles into the bathroom, sliding down to the tiled floor.

It’s surreal, really. He never accepted the fact that Mercutio is dead, so it’s a shock to him now. So much of a shock, in fact, that Benvolio has to gag into the toilet, dry heaving through his sobs.

He doesn’t know when he starts saying Mercutio’s name, over and over until an hour later he’s whispering it in his hoarse and cracked voice.

“Benvolio?” Dr. Laurence’s voice asks, and fuck, Benvolio forgot about the appointment. “I came in to see if you were alright... Are you?” he asks outside the bathroom door, and no, Benvolio’s not alright, but he keeps silent except for the sobs that make his body convulse. “I’m going to come in now, okay?” Laurence says, his voice quiet and calm.

When he opens the door, he sees Benvolio crouched down, tears on his face and his hair messy.

“He’s gone, he’s _gone_ ,” is all that Benvolio says, all that he moans over and over again.

“Tell me what happened, Benvolio,” Laurence says, and Benvolio tries to look him in the eyes.

Dr. Laurence notes that he looks childish. He looks like a scared child, his eyes red and his face wet.

“He’s gone, Mercutio’s gone, he’s dead,” Benvolio says, incoherently.

“Mercutio’s been dead for weeks, Benvolio,” Dr. Laurence says calmly.

“He’s always been here, he didn’t really go away, and now he’s gone,” Benvolio chokes out, through his sobs.

“Oh, Benvolio,” Dr. Laurence says, because he knows what this is. He knows what’s happening, he knows it all too well. Hallucinations, delusions, _fictions_ happen far too often in the patients he sees. “Mercutio was just a... memory. He wasn’t really here, and the medication rid you of the voices in your head.”

“He _wouldn’t_ lie, he said he was here, he said he was real.”

The sobs rack Benvolio’s body.

“He wasn’t,” Dr. Laurence says, wondering if he’s just hurting the boy more. “I’m sorry, Benvolio.”

Dr. Laurence takes Benvolio and leads him to his bedroom.

Benvolio goes willingly, because maybe this is a dream. Maybe Mercutio will be here when he wakes up.

He’s not.

* * *

Benvolio has a flower in his hand.

It’s stem is green and the flowery part is white. It’s a pathetic excuse for visiting the cemetery, but, well.

Mercutio’s headstone is plain, his parents didn’t have the money to pay for something like this. Benvolio’s parents loathe him. All he could afford was this.

Like always, Benvolio’s smile breaks across his face when he sees Mercutio.

(“Hey, Benny,” Mercutio would say, a crooked grin on his features, too.)

Benvolio’s smile falters. “I know the truth, now.”

(Mercutio would furrow his eyebrows.)

“Ever since you died,” Benvolio’s voice cracks. “You’ve been a voice in my head,”

(“Well, yeah, Benny,” Mercutio would say, quite grimly.)

“You lied to me. For me.” Benvolio says, tears breaking his smile. “You were never there.”

(“I’m always here,” Mercutio would tell him.)

Benvolio lays the white flower on the ground.

“I love you,” Benvolio whispers.

(He would be gone before Mercutio got the chance to whisper it back.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! We're sorry if we made you cry! Except not really we cried while writing this  
> Find us at nightvalie.tumblr.com/benvolio.co.vu and theghostparty.tumblr.com  
> Sorry again for your tears


End file.
